


Days of Future Past

by Dorksidefiker



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorksidefiker/pseuds/Dorksidefiker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time travel is an even bigger headache than the usual werewolf crap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days of Future Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jflowy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jflowy/gifts).



> Finally, at long last, long after everyone had given up hope, the (unbeta'd) birthday fic I promised my beloved, extremely tolerant beta-reader.
> 
>  
> 
> I am so, so sorry.

Stiles lay face down on the turf, squirming beneath the weight of the man pinning him down. "The first thing I need you to do," the man murmured, mouth close to Stiles' ear, "is calm down and stop trying to hit me."

Stiles bucked and squirmed, but the man refused to be removed. "How 'bout _you_ let me break your nose and get the cops to arrest you for kidnapping a minor instead?" he suggested. His captor twisted his arm higher up his back, forcing a pained whine from Stiles's throat in spite of himself.

"I think that's gonna be pretty hard for you, _Genim_." The pain abated as Stiles's arms were allowed to return to their natural position, but the weight remained on his back. "Since you turned 40 this year."

Stiles went still and limp, grass prickling against his cheek as he turned his head to try and see the man holding him down. Dark hair cropped close (and liberally sprinkled with gray), light brown eyes, and a face Stiles had been staring at in the mirror his whole life – plus a couple of decades -- stared back at him.

"Try to bite me and I'll knock you out, and I'd _really_ hate to give myself a concussion."

~*~*~*~

Stiles never stopped asking questions; not while his future self (who he dubbed OtherStiles) took pictures of the ring of mushrooms he'd woken up in, not while they marched through the woods, not even when OtherStiles let himself into the Hale house and started making sandwiches. OtherStiles kept the answers coming (even though half of them amounted to 'I don't know yet').

"Why are we at the Hale house?"

Not that the place was the Hale house as Stiles knew it – extensive remodeling had turned the place from a burned out shell into an actual home; the kitchen even had polished granite counters and a sink half full of dirty plates. The kitchen table Stiles was sitting at was scarred by deep claw marks, and Stiles picked at one of the grooves while he waited for an answer.

"I live here. Eat your sandwich."

" _Why_?"

OtherStiles cracked open a beer and sat down, one corner of his mouth turning up slightly. There were thin, pale scars that stretched the half grin oddly. "Because you're a teenager, which translates into 'bottomless pit'."

"Are you being obtuse because you're afraid of telling me something that's gonna change the past?"

OtherStiles hid the rest of his grin behind his beer. "Spoilers."

Time travel was going to give Stiles an aneurism. "Do _not_ try to pull that River Song bullshit on me! It's not cool on TV, and it's not cool now-- are you _laughing_ at me?"

OtherStiles had one hand over his eyes, and his shoulders were shaking. "Oh God, I finally understand! It all makes sense now!"

"Ha. Fucking. Ha." Stiles worked up a good glare. "Care to enlighten me?"

"I could," his future self sniggered, "but trust me, it won't make any sense to you for a long time."

"So I grow up to be a cryptic son of a bitch. Good to know." Stiles finally started eating his sandwich, chewing with more force than was really necessary.

"Sti-iles, she's doing it again-!" A tangle of limbs, floppy hair, and flannel shirts stumbled into the kitchen, resolving itself into a dark haired boy. The kid came to a sudden stop, eyes flashing blue briefly as they bounced between Stiles and OtherStiles.

"Finn."

Stiles knew that tone; he'd heard it from his own father often enough. Finn backed up to the doorway, unsure if he should stay or go. He turned another long, searching look on Stiles before going back to OtherStiles. "Should I get Derek, or is this one of those things where I should just go back to my room and be very quiet?"

"And that's why you're my favorite," OtherStiles announced proudly. "Tell your sister to stop – well, being _her_ for a few hours. I know I'm asking a lot," he raised his voice, looking past Finn to someone lurking just out of sight, "but a few hours of peace shouldn't be _that_ hard, Siobhan!" He caught Stiles's expression and grimaced. "Not my fault. They came pre-named."

"You heard the man, Finn!" the girl Stiles couldn't see snapped. "Upstairs! Homework!"

Finn slouched away like a kicked puppy, and Stiles watched OtherStiles rub the bridge of his nose the way he'd seen his father do a thousand times before. "They're good kids, just-"

"Kids," Stiles mumbled.

"Yeah. Suddenly everything Dad ever did makes so much sense."

"Derek's kids?"

OtherStiles's mouth twitched. "They aren't his fault, and they were just so cute when they first turned up, we couldn't stand to give them away. Unfortunately, they turned into teenagers, so they're not so cute anymore."

"And you're-" Stiles couldn't stop himself from asking.

"The one who does the real parenting."

"That is so not what I was asking." Stiles started picking apart the remains of his sandwich, unable to entirely quash his pout.

"Finish your sandwich. We've got research to do, and I kinda wanna get it done before some other emergency crops up."

~*~*~*~

"God dammit, Stiles!"

Stiles was aware of _something_ in his hand, which was a minor miracle considering how much he _ached_. He knew what he was clutching was important, but he couldn't remember _why_ , not with the way everything from his toenails to the roots of his hair hurt – and Derek Hale yelling at him really wasn't helping.

"Fuck off," Stiles groaned, rolling onto his side. Derek's boots had squashed some of the mushrooms, breaking the circle. There was something important about that, too, but the _pain_ -!

"You disappeared for three hours!" Derek was surprisingly gentle as he lifted Stiles off the ground. "Scott's freaking – and _blaming me_ \-- what the hell did you do?"

"Fairy ring," Stiles muttered, bits of information fighting their way to the surface. "My mouth tastes like death," he added miserably.

"You reek."

Stiles turned his face so it rested against Derek's chest, using his bulk to block out the light stabbing into his eyes, never noticing that the photograph he'd been hanging on to fell out of his hand, disappearing into the leaves that coated the forest floor. Derek loped away, muttering darkly about Stiles being too dumb to survive without help.

Two days later, an enterprising crow turned the picture Stiles had snatched before being sent home into part of it's nest. By then, Stiles had mostly forgotten about the whole misadventure anyway, only inconsequential bits and pieces staying with him.

By the time the crow was done with it, the only part still recognizable was the banner wishing Derek and Stiles a happy 10th anniversary.


End file.
